


watch it all fade

by carryokee



Category: Days of Our Lives
Genre: Angst, Banter, M/M, POV Second Person, Road Trips, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryokee/pseuds/carryokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Will and Sonny go on a road trip and have a lot of sex.  (Really.)  Oh, and some angst happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch it all fade

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: second person POV, lack of quotation marks

This is what you’ll want to remember: the wide curve of Will’s smile, his bare feet on the dash as the miles pass. The smell of the ocean, salty and sharp, sand still warm from the sun. Dusty stripes of sunlight falling across the bed as you make love. The shape of his body under the sheets, the shape of yours beside him. The tangle of his fingers in yours. The taste and smell of his skin.

+++

**.friday**

Come on, Sonny, Will says. Let’s go. Just you and me. We’ll get out of Salem for a while. It’ll be fun.

You don’t have time for a road trip, you tell him. You have school and the coffee house and responsibilities. You can’t just jump in a car and drive with no destination. Who does that, anyway? You conveniently forget the years you spent wandering the world on foot, trying to escape your own life. You didn’t have him then, no reason to want to stay right where you were.

Chad looks at you and says, YOLO, dude. Just like that. YOLO. Like a walking Twitter hashtag.

So you relent. Two against one and the one didn’t really have his heart in it anyway. Four days, you insist. That’s it. Leave Friday morning, back by Monday night.

The voltage of Will’s smile could power the cappuccino machine for a month.

+++

It’s dark when you leave. And cold. Your breath curls into white ribbons in front of your face as you throw your bag in the trunk. Will’s already in the passenger’s seat, hunched inside his coat, the dome light casting his shadow across the dash and making his hair glow.

When you slip behind the wheel, he smiles at you. He looks happy, happier than you’ve seen him in a while. You think in that moment that you’d go anywhere with him and stay there forever if that look in his eyes would stay.

The light goes off when you close the door. Where to?

His grin is wide and bright. A light in the darkness. Somewhere warm, he says.

+++

You stop for pancakes three hours later, the sun hanging low over the horizon. You order the short stack, but Will’s stack needs a building permit. You meticulously smear butter between each of your pancakes, all the way to the edges, then draw a star on top with the syrup. When you look up, Will’s looking at you, a forkful of pancake hovering near his mouth.

What?

It’s breakfast, Sonny, not shop class. You’re supposed to eat it, not construct it.

You stick your tongue out at him. Picking up your knife, you cut out a perfect triangle, capturing bits of all three pancakes with your fork and putting them in your mouth. You chew slowly, meeting his eyes across the table, watching him force another bite into his own mouth before he’s even swallowed the last one.

Some things are meant to be savored, you tell him, cutting and chewing another bite. If you’re good, maybe I’ll show you what I mean later. You wink at him.

In a rest stop men’s room 80 miles down the interstate, he pulls you into the last stall and closes the door, pushing you against it. It’s later, he whispers, thumbing the skin of your belly.

His tongue still tastes like coffee and syrup, sweet and bitter, and the press of his body makes you hard in an instant. You could fuck him right here, or let him fuck you, hard and fast with your clothes on, two sets of feet under one door for anyone to see, but it’s not what you want. You want a bed, you want skin, you want to take your time. You always want to take your time with him.

So you kiss him slowly, gentling his urgency with your hands, smoothing them over his face, your thumbs brushing the curve of his cheeks. You feel him sigh into your mouth, his body relaxing, and when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far, just presses his forehead to yours.

I’m sorry, he whispers. You can taste the words on your lips.

For what? For wanting me? You smile, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. 

You can feel him blush, the sudden flush of blood warming his skin. He pulls away farther, looking around before meeting your eyes.

We’re in the men’s room, he says sheepishly.

You nod. So I noticed.

I didn’t… He doesn’t say anything else, but you can see something like fear start to bleed into his eyes.

Didn’t what?

I didn’t. He sighs. Sonny, I just…if I made you feel, like, I don’t know, cheap or something, I-I didn’t mean to.

The sound of your laughter bounces off the tile walls. He looks at you, confused, and starts to pull away. Will, you say, pulling him back towards you. You take his hand and press it to your erection. Definitely not cheap, you whisper.

He bites his bottom lip as he smiles and you can’t help it, you have to kiss him again, tugging at that lip with the edges of your teeth. He squeezes your cock just a little, then pulls his hand away, breaking the kiss. 

Come on, he says, sliding the door latch open. We’re burning daylight.

+++

Another 75 miles and there’s a sign for an indoor flea market, the largest in the tri-state area. Of course Will wants to go.

The place is huge, a thousand stalls under one roof, and at least twice as many people milling around. Will buys a giant bag of kettle corn and a pair of knockoff Armani sunglasses, which he wears indoors like a movie star dodging paparazzi. You find a bookstall and stop to look, Will’s eye roll almost audible. There’s no particular order to the selection, just stacks and stacks of books all over the place. The whole setup has the vague look of a Rube Goldberg contraption on the verge of collapse.

You could spend an hour here, probably longer, but you feel Will shift behind you, his feet shuffling impatiently as he noisily chews his popcorn. You settle on a couple of paperbacks and a small, thin hardcover whose delicate browning pages and red cloth cover call out to you. At only three bucks, it’s a steal.

Will grabs the bag after you’ve paid and pulls out the hardcover, reading its title and giving you a look. There’s a teasing spark in his eyes.

The Art of Breathing?

You smile. It’s a book for singers and you couldn’t carry a tune in a battalion of buckets, but you didn’t buy it for its content. What? you say. I like the way it smells.

He smirks at you and brings the book to his nose, taking a deep breath, then pulling a face. It stinks, he says, nose wrinkling.

You snatch the book away from him. You have no appreciation for the little things, you tease. Haven’t you ever just seen something and had to have it?

He looks intently into your eyes, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. Are you really asking me that?

You suddenly remember the kiss in the restroom, the press of Will’s hands against your body, the taste of his tongue. The way he looked at you in the moment before your mouths met. He’s looking at you like that now.

Let’s get out of here, he says softly. Go somewhere.

Anticipation thrums beneath your skin at the promise of his words. Okay, you say. Yes.

+++

The air inside the room is stale and damp, like it’s been recycled a few too many times. You let the weighted door fall shut behind you, then turn the deadbolt into place. Will’s across the room in four steps, reaching for the curtains and pulling them shut. He turns to face you, a dark silhouette against the window. He starts to undress.

You do the same, fingers trembling a little as you work at your buttons. You’re a little nervous and you don’t know why. It’s not like you’re new at this. You’ve done this before. You’ve done this with Will. But it feels new. It feels exciting. Like the best kind of secret.

You meet him in the middle, at the foot of the bed. His hands find your skin and he dips his head and breathes against your neck, the edges of his teeth brushing against your hairline, his tongue following after. The tip of his erection presses against your belly. You reach for his cock, curl your fingers around it, feel the hitch of his breath against your skin, the pressure of his fingertips against your hips. You slip your other hand around the back of his neck and seek out his lips, teasing them open with your tongue.

He’s above you after that, two fingers moving slowly inside your body. You can hear yourself breathe, quick and shallow. He’s looking at you, wearing the same expression he did the first time you did this, a look so focused, so intense, it almost hurts to meet it. You touch his face, brush your thumb across his lips. He twists his fingers and smiles a little at the needy little sound you make.

Pillow, you whisper, and he reaches for one. You push against the mattress with your feet, lifting your backside off the bed, and he slips it under you, sliding the palm of his hand against your belly like a promise when he’s done.

His fingers are gone and you feel a little empty, but then he pushes your legs farther apart and fits himself between them. He’s beautiful like this, naked and flushed, eyes dark with need. Need for you, for this. For sex that’s more than sex. For the connection that sparks between you like a Tesla coil.

When he enters you, you close your eyes and breathe out, drawing your knees up higher, feeling him sink deeper, your fingers sliding against his skin. You can feel his muscles tense and relax as he moves above you, inside you, can feel his breath against your face. He kisses you and you draw his tongue into your mouth, sink your fingers into his hair and press his mouth harder against yours, wanting more.

He breaks away, your name tumbling out on a breath, and you open your eyes to meet his, wide pupils with a ring of blue holding you in their sights. If you could fall upward, you would, right into those eyes.

He stops moving, just holds there, buried inside you. He touches your face. So much, Sonny, he whispers.

You know exactly what he means.

+++

You go out for snacks, leaving Will naked and half asleep. It’s not until you get back to the room and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror over the sink that you understand the look you got from the kid behind the counter at the 7-Eleven.

You have a hickey, right where your neck meets your jaw. You rub at the spot. It’s tender and there’s fleeting pain at the pressure, but you smile.

Sorry about that, Will says behind you. His voice is thick with sleep.

You turn to face him. He’s sitting up in the bed, leaning against the headboard, the sheet pooled around his waist. He’s rubbing his eyes with his fists and yawning and it suddenly strikes you just how _young_ he is, not much more than a kid in a lot of ways, though it’s easy to forget that in the way he looks at you sometimes, the way he touches you, the distance you see in his eyes sometimes that you can’t seem to touch.

Don’t be, you say, touching the mark again. I don’t mind.

His eyes travel from your face to the bag dangling from your hand. Please tell me you bought Twizzlers, he says, looking back up at you hopefully.

You want to tease him, to pretend you forgot, but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing, especially with him. Ever since you came out, you’ve believed in total honesty, and when you look at him, you can’t imagine ever holding anything back. You want to share everything with him, open yourself up and let it all spill out. Sometimes you think you’d do anything for him, anything at all. All he’d have to do is ask.

You toss the bag onto the bed as you toe off your shoes. It seems unfair that he’s lying there, cozy and tantalizingly naked, while you’re standing here in your clothes. He watches you undress and you watch him watch you. You like the weight of his gaze on your skin, the shy way he smiles a little when he looks at you like this. It makes you feel sexy. It makes you feel special. Sure, you’re the only man he’s ever been with and sometimes you let that worry you. Like, how do you know if he’s really happy with you if he has nothing to compare it to? But you don’t let it worry you for long. Because you feel how he touches you, all the little ways he makes contact when you’re together. You hear all the sounds he makes, the way he says I love you. You see your own contentment reflected back at you when he’s near you.

You slide between the cool sheets and snuggle up against him, reaching for the bag of snacks. The room is getting darker with the setting sun and the light from the television throws a blue-white glow across the bed. You toss him the Twizzlers and grab the gummy bears for yourself. He keeps trying to steal the green ones, sneaking his hand across your lap like if he moves slowly enough, you won’t see him. You bat his hand away every time. The tenth time he tries it, you grab his wrist, bring his hand to your mouth and lick a wet stripe across his palm, meeting his eyes as you do it. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his lips falling open around a breath.

His mouth tastes like cherry flavoring, corn syrup, and Red 40. 

+++

You make love to him slowly, spreading him out and taking your time. You love the way he blooms beneath your hands. He watches you, watches you touch him, follows the trail of your mouth across his body as you taste him. 

You suck him, listening to his sounds, pressing your hand against the flat of his belly to hold him still, thumbing a nipple just to make him squirm. He always loves to kiss you afterward, to taste himself on your tongue. You love the sound he makes when he comes.

You hear that sound twice more before morning.

+++

**.saturday**

You’re on the road again, heading south. Will pulls an egg from his pocket and starts to peel it – a souvenir from the hotel’s continental breakfast.

Don’t throw the shell on my floor, you say.

He snorts. You are such an anal-retentive freak about your car, he says. He drops the shell on the floor with careless nonchalance and grins over at you. And about your apartment, your coffee house, your schoolbooks—

My schoolbooks? You shoot him a sideways look, one eyebrow raised.

You feel his eyes on the side of your face. They’re alphabetized, Sonny. Inside your bag.

You smile. It’s called organization, Will. You should try it sometime.

And you group all your socks by color.

It’s easier to find the pair I’m looking for that way.

The cans in your pantry are arranged by size.

Not just by size, you admit with a sheepish smile. Also by food group. 

And yet you’re always late, he says. How is that possible?

You shrug. What can I say? I’m a mystery, wrapped up inside a—

Taco.

You laugh. A taco?

What? I’m hungry, he says. A few seconds pass. Then: Man, I could totally eat a taco right now.

You shake your head. You’ve never seen anyone eat as much as he does and still have a flat stomach. It isn’t fair. But then again, you’re not complaining. We’re not stopping for tacos, you tell him.

+++

There’s something comforting about fast food. No matter where you go, it always tastes the same. A Big Mac in Paris tastes like a Big Mac in Washington, D.C. You like the continuity of it if not exactly the food itself.

Will’s grinning at you across his tray of tacos. You’re the best boyfriend ever, he says as he unwraps one.

You watch him eat, tilting his head sideways and bringing the food to his mouth, chewing enthusiastically. He eats one after another after another, barely coming up for air until they’re all gone, then sits back and grins at you across the table.

Aren’t you hungry?

Dude, you say, deadpan. No one would be hungry after watching that display.

He smirks at you, which of course you find adorable. You’ve always hated yourself just a teensy bit for just how easily you fell for him. Love should be harder won, you think. But with Will, it was easy. It just snuck in through the window one night and settled around your heart before you even knew what hit you.

Where are we going?

You smile. Wherever the road takes us, you say. Isn’t that the point?

He returns your smile. As long as there’s a warm, sandy beach at the end of that road, I’m in.

And if there isn’t? You’re teasing him, of course. And maybe testing him, just a little. Just to see what he’ll say.

He looks at you, holding your gaze for several seconds before responding. As long as you’re with me, I’m in.

+++

Two hours later, it’s fifteen degrees warmer and Will rolls down his window halfway. He’s driving, and you’re reading one of the paperbacks you bought from the flea market. Every now and then, you turn your head and look at the way the wind blows his hair around, at the loose curl of his hands around the wheel. You haven’t spoken in miles, but the silence is a good one. It’s comfortable, wrapping you up in its warmth.

He catches you looking at him and turns his head to meet your eyes for a brief moment before turning back towards the road. And that’s when you see it: the sadness, that little bit of something that bleeds into his eyes when he thinks you’re not looking. He’s keeping something from you, you know he is, and it hurts. You want to tell him he can trust you, but he should know that by now, damn it. You’ve told him enough already.

Will.

He looks at you again. The sadness is gone, suddenly hidden away where you can’t see it, where you can’t reach it. You hate that he’s so good at that. You hate that he feels like he has to do that with you. 

Yeah?

Say something, damn it. Make him stop the car. Make him tell you.

Instead you say, Stop at the next exit, would you? I have to pee.

+++

Two hours later you drive into a rainstorm. One second it’s sunny, the next it’s coming down in sheets until you can barely see the car in front of you. Will pulls off the road to wait it out and starts fiddling with the radio, turning it up to hear it over the sound of the rain on the roof. You suppress a smile. You’ve been wondering when he would get around to it. So far, he’s been content with whatever you could find on the radio or with one of your CDs. It’s been an heroic effort on his part, but you knew he'd cave eventually.

I can’t believe your stereo doesn’t have an iPod jack, he says. It’s not the first time he’s complained about this. How old is your car, anyway? I’m surprised it even has power windows.

You’ll admit, it’s not the newest car in the world, but you bought it outright with your own money and you can’t quite express how much you love it. 

You smile at him. And the reason we’re not in your car right now is…?

He smirks in response.

That’s what I thought, you say. You stroke the dash lovingly. Be nice or I won’t let you drive her anymore.

He goes back to scanning through the stations. You want to tell him that for a fact, you’ve only ever heard one Foster the People song on the radio and that was ages ago, so he shouldn’t get his hopes up. There’s something to be said for being a fan of mainstream music; you always have something to listen to.

In this part of the world, though, the predominant music genre seems to be country, which he buzzes right past with barely a listen. But when you catch a snippet of a song you like, you stop him with a hand on his wrist before he can change it. Wait, you say. I want to hear this one.

He gives you an incredulous look, like if he’d known you liked country music, he never would have gone out with you in the first place. And he certainly never would’ve had sex with you.

The chorus comes on and you smile. You pull him in, pressing your lips to his ear. You want him to hear this since you are, after all, changing the words a little for his benefit.

He slides in and you roll down main street  
You turn right when that red light turns green  
The sun sets, now you’re halfway to heaven  
He picks a song you turn it up to eleven,  
You say, “Do you wanna?” and he says, “Hell yeah!”  
So you hit the party, all your buddies are jealous  
Someday you’ll be looking back on your life  
At the memories, this is gonna be one of those nights

You feel his fingers curl in the front of your shirt, tugging you closer even as he pulls his head back to look at you. The smile on his face is exactly what you hoped for.

By the time the rain stops, the windows are thoroughly fogged, and you have a cramp in your thigh. You buckle your pants and relax back in your seat, rubbing your leg. You watch Will rearrange himself, pulling his shirt back on and zipping up his jeans. His hair’s messed up where you had your hands in it and you can feel the beginnings of beard burn on your face. You can’t remember ever seeing him this unshaven before, but you like it.

You reach over and touch his face, tracing the curve of his jaw, his stubble rough against your fingertips. He turns his head and smiles at you. You pull him back to you and kiss him, rubbing your lips lightly back and forth across his cheek.

You are so hot, you whisper against his skin, then pull away.

As you click your seatbelt into place, you suppress a smile at the delicate shade of red creeping up his neck.

+++

You have dinner at a little Italian place that’s so cliché it makes your teeth hurt: red and white checkered tablecloths, wicker covered wine bottles, and waitresses with more than ample cleavage bursting out of their low-cut peasant blouses. You walked here from the hotel and you feel like splurging a little, so you order a big bowl of linguine and a bottle of red wine that you share with Will when no one’s looking.

As the buzz settles warmly in your bones, you look across the table at Will. He’s a little flushed from the wine, his eyes shining, and you think not for the first time how incredibly fortunate you are. You’ve wanted him for longer than you can even remember and there were times when you didn’t think it would ever happen. But now he’s yours, he’s a part of you, and it’s getting harder and harder to imagine your life without him. In many ways, he’s still not there yet, not where you are, at least, but he’s trying, and you love him so much for the courage you know that takes that it’s hard to breathe sometimes.

You know how much I love you, right? The words are out of your mouth almost before you think them. But the reaction you get isn’t exactly what you expected.

His eyes fill with tears. Sonny, he says, his voice a little hoarse. He looks away, out the window, and you can feel him moving away from you, shutting down, disappearing inside himself. You don’t know what to do to stop it.

Will, you say, what is it? Whatever it is, you can tell me. 

He shakes his head. He still won’t look at you. I’m just tired. 

You know it’s a lie. You’ve seen him tired and it doesn’t look like this. He looks frayed at the edges, like one pluck on a loose thread would unravel him. You slide your hand over his on the table, staring at the side of his face, willing him to look at you, to say something, to let you in. He flips his hand over so he can curl his fingers around yours. Then he finally looks at you. The smile he gives you is fragile and beautiful and breaks your heart a little.

I’m sorry, he says. This trip is supposed to be fun and I’m ruining it.

You meet his eyes. You know he’s going to lie again, but you ask anyway. Are you okay?

He pulls his hand away. It feels worse than it should, like something lost. I’m fine, Sonny. When you won’t stop looking at him, he lifts his eyebrows and says with emphasis, _I swear_. He reaches for the dessert menu. Now what’s for dessert?

And just like that, the moment’s over.

You finish the wine all by yourself as he eats his tiramisu. By the time you pay the check, you’re more than a little drunk.

When you get back to the hotel, you let him fuck you. You make a lot of noise and don’t give a shit who hears you. Maybe you want everyone to know what he does to you, how he makes you feel. Maybe you just want to drown out the voice inside your head that keeps whispering, whispering.

Afterwards he kisses your jaw and says softly, Let’s never go back.

If you called him on it, he’d probably say he was kidding, laugh it off and say he didn’t really mean it. But you know deep down he does. For some reason he can’t tell you, home isn’t where he wants to be anymore. But your home is him. And if he asked you, _really_ asked you to just drop everything and leave it all behind, to just keep driving until you ran out of road, you just might do it. 

You don’t respond. You simply card your fingers through his sweaty hair and fall asleep to the press of his lips against your neck.

+++

**.sunday**

Will’s talkative this morning, but you’re nursing a headache so you stay quiet and just listen to the cheerful sound of his chatter as you get ready. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think last night never happened, that there wasn’t anything like sadness lingering behind the beautiful blue of his eyes. Except you remember every detail, and it’s the memory of his expression at dinner last night that makes you suddenly reach out for him and pull him close, wrapping him up in your arms.

He stops talking midsentence and in his surprise, it takes him a moment to wrap his arms around you. When he does, you close your eyes and turn your face, pushing your nose into his hair.

What’s all this? His voice is edged with laughter and your throat burns at the sound of it because you want more than anything for him to be happy, and you know he isn’t, not completely. And it kills you.

In answer, you close your fingers in the back of his shirt and hold on tighter. You don’t say anything, just concentrate on the feel of his body against yours, the solidness of it, the warmth, trying to memorize the details. After a moment, you reluctantly pull away, pressing a kiss to his cheek and meeting his eyes.

Everything okay? he asks, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

You tell me, you want to say. You can trust me, I love you, I want to help you. Let me help you.

But what you really say is, Yeah. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to hug you, that’s all. 

He holds your eyes for a moment, then grins, gripping your shoulders. Today’s the day, he says, and his excitement is so contagious, you can’t help but smile back at him.

+++

You’ve never been a huge fan of the Atlantic Ocean. The water’s too green for your taste, especially this far up the coast. But it’s a beautiful day and the sand is warm beneath your feet, so you’re not complaining. Besides, Will can’t stop smiling and he looks really fucking good without a shirt, so all in all, you consider it a win.

The beach is already packed with families enjoying one last day off before the week starts again. You’re sitting on your blanket from your spot just beyond the high tide line, watching them. Will’s lying next to you, his hand curved loosely around your calf, the tip of his thumb drawing patterns across your skin.

It’s a perfect moment, you think, and file it away where you keep all your perfect moments, the things you want to remember. There are a thousand memories of Will there already.

You reach down, capturing his hand and absently tangling your fingers with his as you continue to people watch.

Hey.

You turn to look at him. He smiles at you from behind his Armani knockoffs. What are you thinking about?

He’s already starting to burn. You reach out a finger and press it to his pinking skin, the white imprint of your fingertip slowly fading when you pull it away. You smile. I’m thinking you’re going to have to sleep standing up if you don’t put on some sunscreen.

He huffs petulantly. You reach for your bag and pull out the tube of sunscreen, shaking it in his direction.

Come on, you say. Stop being stubborn.

He smirks and sits up, taking the tube from your hand and flipping it open. It’s not fair, you know, he says. I burn and you just get browner.

It’s true. By this time tomorrow you’ll be a half shade darker. One of the benefits of your father’s Greek heritage.

Stop whining and give me that, you say, snatching the tube from his hand. Besides, it gives me an excuse to rub my hands all over you. You wiggle your eyebrows at him.

He rolls his eyes and laughs, turning around on the blanket until his back is facing you. You don’t need an excuse to touch me, he says, casting you a look over his shoulder.

You smile. Thank god, you say, leaning in to whisper the words in his ear. Otherwise I’d have to start making a list.

+++

Will’s asleep next to you, lying on his stomach, his cheek resting on his folded arms. His hair is stiff with salt and when you press your lips to his shoulder, you can taste it on his skin. You’re lying there facing him, just watching his face, looking for signs of bad dreams. He hasn’t had any this trip, at least none you know about, and in spite of everything else that’s happened, you’re unbelievably grateful that at least he’s being spared that.

You don’t know how long you lie there watching him. Time passes differently when you’re with him. It ebbs and flows like the tide, sometimes rushing past you, sometimes pulling you under. And sometimes it feels like it stops completely. Like now, when the rest of the world has faded into nothing more than the blurred background of a photograph and all that’s in focus is him.

He smiles without opening his eyes. Stop staring at me, you creepy freak.

You feel yourself smile. I’m just trying to decide.

He cracks one eye open. Decide what?

If you’re good-looking enough to take home with me tonight.

He’s looking at you fully now, blue eyes bright in the sunlight. You’re assuming I want to go home with you.

You grin at him. Of course you do. I’m quite the catch.

He makes a face. Quite the catch? he repeats. What decade is this?

You laugh and lean in. So do you wanna? you whisper.

I don’t know, he says. I kinda have a boyfriend.

Dump him, you say, fitting your fingers between his ribs. His skin is sun-warm and soft. Run away with me.

He reaches for your hair, snaking his fingers through it. Well, he says, you do have nice hair. He smiles. And your lazy eye is kinda sexy.

You suck, you say, laughing as you shove him away. He rolls onto his back, laughing too. How ’bout I just leave you here, hmm? Go back to Salem without you.

I don’t think so, he says, still smiling. You’d be lost without me.

Psh. I could replace you like that, you say, snapping your fingers. You’re only kidding, of course, but you know the words are a mistake when you see something shift behind his eyes. Will, I—

But he cuts you off, rolling towards you and lacing his fingers with yours. I’m the one who would be lost, he says, holding your eyes. If I ever lost you… But he doesn’t finish the thought, just lets it taper off into nothing.

You kiss him then, slowly, letting it linger, the tip of your tongue just brushing his before you pull away. You cup the side of his face as you look him in the eye.

You won’t, you say.

+++

The sun set nearly half an hour ago, sinking behind the buildings at your back. In the light from the condos, you watch the tide come in, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Will as the water creeps closer. The beach is mostly empty now, most of the crowd having left before sunset.

So long Casa Kiriakis, Will says sadly as an especially energetic wave breaks over his painstakingly detailed sand replica of your family’s house and drags half of it away. It even had a garden filled with seaweed trees. 

Shouldn’t that be adios? you say, nudging him with your elbow.

He smiles over at you. His cheeks and nose are pink from the sun and there are perfect arcs of unburned skin where his sunglasses had been.

You trace one of the lines with your fingertip and smile. You have owl eyes.

He touches his face where you touched him. Do I?

I like it, you say. It’s cute.

He smirks. Says the guy with the perfect tan.

Not perfect, you say. I’ll have lines. In other places. You raise your eyebrows. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to see them later.

He laughs and shakes his head, turning back towards the water. You watch him watch the tide for a minute before looking away. Minutes pass in silence before he speaks again.

Thank you, he says.

For what? You turn to look at him again.

For today. And yesterday. And the day before, he says. He isn’t looking at you as he says it. You didn’t really want to come on this trip, but you did because I asked you to. That means a lot to me.

Will, you say. When he still won’t look at you, you say his name again. Look at me, please.

He does. It’s hard to tell in the growing darkness, but you think maybe he’s on the verge of tears again.

Listen to me, you say. Are you listening?

He nods.

You say the words inside your head before you speak them just to make sure they’re the right ones. They are.

Wherever you are is where I want to be. You brush his hair back. Okay?

He nods again and then the last thing you want to happen happens. He starts to cry, his shoulders shaking as his face crumples.

You reach for him and he pulls you to him, grabbing your shirt in his fists and burying his face in your neck. You can feel his tears on your skin, the ragged warmth of his breath, and you just hold on to him, one hand in his hair, the other pressed securely against his back.

I don’t want to go back there, you hear him whisper. He says other things, too, like I’m sorry and I love you and I don’t want to lose you and with every word, your heart breaks a little more.

You can’t quite bring yourself to ask again. You’re tired of hearing him lie. You’re tired of watching him tear himself apart trying to hold himself together. So you make a conscious decision to stop asking. When he’s ready to tell you, he will. Until then, you’ll just be there for him however he needs you.

+++

You’re out of condoms. He says it’s alright, he doesn’t care, just please, please. But you care. You won’t do that to him no matter how prettily he begs or how badly you want it. You’ve never done that before, not with him. You even wear a condom when he sucks you off. So you use your hands and fingers instead, bringing him off twice before you even let him touch you. Afterwards, sticky and spent, you just pull him against you and hold him close, resting your cheek on his chest and breathing against his skin, listening to the beating of his heart.

A few hours later he wakes you up to do it all over again.

+++

**.monday**

Road, road, and more road. You strayed a long way in the last three days and now you have to make up for it if you’re going to make it back by tonight.

Will’s quiet in the seat next to you, arms hugged across his chest, head propped against the window. He’s barely said a word since breakfast, lost inside his own head. With each passing mile, you can feel him retreating, adding another brick to the wall he’s building to shield himself from the world.

You feel it too, the dread, working its way slowly along the surface of your mind, creeping its way down to wrap around your spine. With each passing road sign, you fight the urge to exit, to just find somewhere else, anywhere else to go. You can imagine it so easily: turning the wheel and following the road, driving until you run out of gas and settling where you landed. It would be so simple.

Except it wouldn’t. You’ve already done the running thing and you won’t do it again, not even for Will. You thought maybe you could, that you could do anything for him, but you can’t. You love him too much to help him hide away. You won’t spend the rest of your life watching him slowly disintegrate.

+++

By noon, you’re halfway home. Watching him eat, you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong. After finishing his meal, he reaches across the table and finishes yours.

He asks for the keys. You hesitate to hand them over.

Relax, he says, rolling his eyes. I’m not going to kidnap you and force you to rob banks to support our life on the lam. 

You smile despite yourself and give him the keys.

Thirty miles down the road, he says out of the blue, Eddie Callahan.

You look over at him. Excuse me?

He flashes you a smile, meeting your eyes for a moment before turning them back towards the road. That would be my alias, he says. If I was on the lam.

You laugh, you can’t help it. Why Eddie Callahan?

He shrugs. I read somewhere that you can create an alias by pairing the name of your first pet with the name of the first street you lived on.

I think that’s porn star names, you say.

Nuh-uh, he says, and the grin that breaks across his face is the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in hours. My porn star name is Brick Mortar.

You laugh so hard, you cry.

+++

So what would yours be? he asks you a few minutes later.

My porn star name?

He gives you a look. Your alias. I’m not living on the lam without you, you know.

You smile a little at that. Well, you say, based on your formula, it would be Fish Glen Oaks.

He laughs. Please tell me Fish was a fish.

Of course Fish was a fish.

And you named it Fish?

You shrug. I was three.

And apparently not very creative. He smiles. How embarrassing.

Shut up. _Brick._

He looks at you. That’s Mr. Mortar to you.

+++

You wait until you’re safely parked at the rest area before saying what you’ve been wanting to say for the last hour.

Ben Dover.

He looks at you in confusion before you see the light slowly dawn in his eyes. Oh, my god, he says. Seriously? He starts giggling.

It’s better than yours, you say, smiling. 

He shakes his head, laughing in earnest, hands gripping the steering wheel. Hey, baby, he manages between breaths, looking over at you. Ben Dover here. No, not there. _Here._

The sound of his laughter is the best sound in the world. If you could bottle it and save it for later, you would.

+++

Forty miles from the Salem city limits, you pull off the highway. It’s your last stop before home.

He doesn’t ask you where you are or why you’re stopping, just follows you wordlessly out of the car and stands there with you in the darkness. It’s cold. Your breath freezes in front of you. Above you is the Milky Way, brighter than you’ve ever seen it in the city. You tilt your head back to take it in and out of the corner of your eye, you see Will do the same.

It’s beautiful, he says.

I used to come here all the time by myself just to look up at the stars, you say. They made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself, you know? But at the same time I felt so small. Like I was alone in the universe.

You look over at him. He’s still looking up at the sky and you study his profile in the moonlight. The shape of his nose, the curve of his lips. Every last detail you don’t need to see to remember. In the silence of today’s drive, you’ve come to a decision. About your future, about his. But it’s not the right time to share it with him yet.

Soon, though. You hope it’ll make him happy.

You reach for his hand instead, linking your fingers together, smiling a little when he squeezes your hand. You look back up at the sky. It’s more beautiful here with you, you say. I don’t feel quite so alone in the universe.

+++

Two weeks later, you give him a key to your apartment.

+++

This is what you’ll want to forget: nearly everything that came after.

**Author's Note:**

> So, um, I basically wrote this over the course of a couple days in a sort stream-of-consciousness way, typing whatever popped into my head. The only ideas I had in mind when I started this were "road trip" and "second person POV." Everything else just kinda happened. I was aiming for 10K words, but as you can see, I fell a little short. To be quite honest, I rather copped out at the end. I had another entire scene in mind right after the stargazing scene, but that part just segued so perfectly into the next line, I left the scene out. My apologies if it seems incomplete. 
> 
> The lyrics Sonny sings to Will are an adaptation of the chorus of the song "One of Those Nights" by Tim McGraw. Wherever Sonny says "he" is actually "she" in the original. But I thought it was perfect for this story nonetheless.
> 
> The title is from the song "If You Don't Wanna Love Me" by James Morrison.


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